


You Had Me At Hello: Parts 4 and 5

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-06
Updated: 2003-01-06
Packaged: 2019-04-27 05:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14418873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: After a horrible car crash, Scully has severe amnesia, she can't remember anything. Upon figuring out that their crash may not have been an accident, Mulder and Scully set out once again in search of the ever-elusive truth, finding more than they bargained for.





	You Had Me At Hello: Parts 4 and 5

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

You Had Me At Hello

## You Had Me At Hello

### by Caroline McKenna

Title: You Had Me at 'Hello'  
Author: Caroline McKenna  
Spoilers: Okay, bear with me here. Small ones for The Pilot, Deep Throat, Squeeze/Tooms, Duane Barry, One Breath, Irresistible, Memento Mori, The Beginning, Never Again, Arcadia, The Sixth Extinction II: Amor Fati, Millennium. Slightly larger ones for Small Potatoes, Detour, All Things, The Unnatural, Existence, Fight the Future, The Truth I and II. Hell, spoilers for the whole series. Set after The Truth II.  
Summary: After a horrible car crash, Scully has severe amnesia; she can't remember anything. Upon figuring out that their crash may not have been an accident, Mulder and Scully set out once again in search of the ever-elusive truth, finding more than they bargained for.  
Category: XRA  
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance  
Rating: PG-13 maybe? Light R? Somewhere in between. Mostly for swearing and suggestive dialogue.  
Disclaimer: You know they're not mine, they never will be mine. All characters and anything pertaining to the X-Files belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX. If you think that they're mine, you need your head examined.   
Feedback: If you're so inclined, I'd be honored.

***

My name is Dana, or so they tell me.

I wouldn't know. I don't remember anything; nothing about the accident- as the doctors refer to is as, nor of the life preceding it.

I'm lucky to be alive, they say, lucky to be awake from the coma that held me prisoner for the past two weeks. 

I know virtually nothing about the crash that sent me here, only that I was driving in my rented Taurus with another person who I've yet to meet. The tox screen showed that I had some alcohol in my system, but within legal limits. Red wine, they said it was.

Funny, I never imagined myself as a wine-drinker. But, then again, I have only known myself for about three days. Not very long.

When I woke up, the first thing I saw was a nurse, hovering over me, checking the IV attached to my left arm. She squealed when she saw my eyes flutter open and then ran out of my room, to alert the doctors of my wakened state. 

Everyone was shocked to find me awake. I'm not quite sure why, but they didn't expect me to come out of it. It's almost disappointing, their lack of faith in me.

Somehow, I sense that I've always been a strong person, it's in my blood, I suppose. 

Along with my name, the doctors told me some more general information about me.

"Dana," I say aloud. The name sounds foreign on my tongue, like I was speaking another person's name and not my own.

My name is Dana Katherine Scully, and I am 38 years old. God, I'm nearing the big 4-oh. It's pretty scary. I am single, with no dependents. I work as an FBI agent in a division called the X-Files, with a partner named Fox Mulder, who I can only assume, was the passenger in the car when we crashed. 

From looking in the small, hand held mirror, I've determined my own physical features. I have auburn hair, nearly shoulder length, and crystal blue eyes which are framed by thick lashes. I was once a pretty woman, although now, I cannot say the same.

My skin in chalky white in color and my eyes are rimmed with dark circles to make me look old beyond my years. Also adding to that factor are the worry lines that crease my brown and the frown lines around my mouth.

My reflection tells me what my mind can't; that my life has not been one lived in Arcadia. Not even close. My shares of tribulations have been distributed throughout my features. Suddenly the big 4-oh doesn't seem so bad when you look at least 50.

There have been a few people in to visit me since I officially 'woke up'. Although I still sleep most of the time, the doctors consider it a 'waking sleep'. In other words, I'm not some comatose vegetable. Thank God for that.

I can't say I know what it felt like exactly, I only know that after three days of lying in bed, I'm already bored stiff. I can't imagine what that would be like for the two weeks I was in the coma.

Anyway, a woman who claims to be my mother visited me for a while, just sitting with me, holding my hand. She didn't ask me to remember, and I didn't ask her to help. 

Overall, a very nice lady. Still, I feel uncomfortable around her. The woman gave birth to me, has known me all my life. I have known her for a grand total of two hours. Just knowing that much gives me the heebeejeebees.

In some ways, Maggie Scully can help me regain my past, but I doubt she can be of much more help than the doctors can when it comes to the crash. For that I will have to turn to Fox Mulder, the person who can put together the puzzle pieces.

I figure, since we were partners, we must have spent a decent amount of time together, at least in the office. Maybe, if he remembers anything, he can help me too. Or at least I hope he can.

It's the actual crash I'm worried about. Doctor McLean says that my memory will be returned to me eventually, but the crash and the weeks surrounding it may never be fully accessible. And, for some strange reason, that bugged me.

My gut told me to investigate, that it wasn't just a simple car crash. That there was more to it than that. 

But, do I normally follow my instincts like I am compelled to do now, or do I wait and think things through logically? Am I and impulsive person or a cautious one? Do I think with my heart or with my mind?

There are so many unanswered questions that I want- no, I need- answers to. 

I suppose that is why I had the nurse wheel me down the hall to Agent Mulder's hospital room. 

I am not strong enough to walk yet, and I probably won't even attempt to stand until tomorrow afternoon. Walking hasn't quite entered the picture. 

Besides my amnesia, my injuries are minor; only small bruises and lacerations painted on my body. Considering the state my mind is in, I am surprised that I don't have a few broken bones or some ghastly gash that will scar me forever. But no, only insignificant cuts and bruises.

I knock on the door after persuading the nurse to leave me alone with Agent Mulder. 

Another nurse, all dressed in white opened the door, and smiled at me as though I was expected. I probably was. I had quickly discovered that not much goes on in this place without everybody knowing about it.

Just this morning I discovered that Mary Allen delivered a baby boy who looked suspiciously like Andrew Greer, who, I gathered, is not the husband, among other things.

"He's been waiting for you, Agent Scully." The woman opened the door wider, moved behind my wheelchair and pushed me into the room.

The man nearly leapt out of bed when he saw me enter.

"Scully!" he cried, laying back down.

While I didn't have any physical injuries, this mans' surely made up for my lack. His lower leg was enveloped in a white plaster cast, and was propped up. There was a bandage around his head, with a little red blood seeping through, and his face was covered in some rather nasty-looking bruises. 

The nurse settled me by his bedside, and lowered the guardrail.

With a warm smile, he took my small hand in his larger one and squeezed it gently, sending chills up my spine. 

The gesture only rose more questions on my mind. Were we more than just work associates? I'd hope so. Friends? Lovers?

"Hey, Scully. How are you?" His voice was dripping with concern. This man obviously cared for me, although the to what extent I had left undetermined.

"Um..." I say tentatively. He mustn't have heard of my memory loss. "Fox Mulder?"

"Yeah, Scully, it's me. Are you okay?" His grip on my hand tightened, as if preparing himself for the awful news of a family members' death, or something dire like that. 

"I'm fine, Fox." I answer, even though my facial expressions completely contradict my words. 

"Okay, Scully, now I know you're not fine. You haven't called me Fox since... hell, I can't remember the last time you called me Fox." Worry emanated from his being only leading me to more questions. Why does he call me by my last name? What do I call him if not Fox?

Knowing that whatever I say will sound strange, I decide to be blunt and ask directly.

"What do I normally call you?" He looks at me as though I've just sprouted green antennae and a long tail. 

"Scully, is there something you're not telling me?" I sigh.

"I have a slight case of amnesia," I whisper quietly.

Eyes narrowing, he asks, "How slight?"

I hesitate, sensing his fear through his touch. We were still holding hands, and he squeezed mine in encouragement.

"I don't remember anything."

He looked positively horrified. All the color drained from his cheeks and his chin dropped at my revelation. Still my hand he held. 

"Oh, Scully..." His voice trailed off and he loosened his grip on my hand to comb his fingers through his chestnut hair.

"I'm sorry, uh..." I pause, waiting for him to supply the appropriate name.

"Mulder," he said hoarsely.

"I'm sorry, Mulder. It scares me too. I, I don't remember anything and the things they tell me sound so foreign. I didn't even recognize my own name. It still sounds strange when people address me by it." I allowed him to process what I had said.

With a new determination, he reclaimed my hand and looked me in the eye. His hazel met my blue, and for a moment, I felt oddly dizzy. Let me say, this man has the most gorgeous eyes. Our contrasting colors provide for perfection.

"It's okay, Scully. It's okay." I suspect he was talking to himself as much as he was me.

"Actually, I was hoping you could help me. Help me regain my memories. My doctor said that they will come back. Whether it be tomorrow or 10 years from now, he doesn't know. Personally, I prefer the former, but it isn't really in my hands alone. Dr. McLean says that they return of my memory may depend of some outside force. A certain word or place may trigger a flashback, and eventually those flashbacks will form a clear picture."

Again, I give him time, although he didn't take it. Immediately he began rattling off words and names that were supposed to have some meaning to Dana Scully, whoever she was.

"Bellefleur, Billy Miles, Deep Throat, livers, Tooms, Duane Barry! God, Scully, you have to remember him! Your abduction! Pfaster, that sorry son-of-a-bitch, the smoking man, your cancer..." His pitch slowly rose until he was practically yelling.

"Mulder," I say. It's amazing how a single word can interrupt his rant. My triumph was short lived, however.

"Antarctica, the Gunmen, Skinner, Gibson Praise, Diana. You have to remember Scully, please! Ed Jerse, Van Blundht with a silent fucking 'h', the flukeman..." Again, I cut him off.

"Mulder," I speak a little louder this time.

"Laura Petrie, Scully. Pronounced Peetree, like the dish? Remember Africa, my brain surgery? Touchstones, Scully. New years, you have to remember that... our first kiss." He looked as though he was in physical pain, the cringed look on his face betraying him, but he kept going anyway.

"Daniel Waterson. That night... our first." His voice betrayed him now beginning to crack. Still he continued on a relentless crusade. 

"William. How could you forget him? Our little miracle. Our son. The supersoldiers, my trial, my sentence- death by lethal injection. The breakout, Monica and John. Scully there are so many things to remember. Scully, try. You have to try, damnit!" And then he broke down in front of my eyes, anguished tears falling from his cheeks. A nurse entered the room, looking concerned. I waved her away; saying that he was in an emotional state and he'd be better left alone. She bought it, luckily.

"Shhh, Mulder, it's okay. It'll be okay, I promise." I squeezed his hand in reassurance. 

At least some of my questions had been answered. I guess we were indeed lovers, and we had a child together, William. But the doctors said I didn't have any dependents. Maybe they were wrong. 

Apparently, we had many times together. I must have known this guy for years.

9

The number just stuck out in my mind. I just knew, somehow. My memory must be returning faster than I thought. 

"It's okay, Mulder. I'll remember soon." I comforted, stroking the back of his hand with my thumb.

The gesture struck me as odd. I was the one with this damn infliction, and he needed the comforting. Shouldn't it be the other way around? What a gentleman.

"Sorry, Scully." He wiped a tear from his eye and smiled weakly at me. "I should be the one comforting you, holding you. I'm so, so sorry."

It was as if he could read my mind. Were we like this... before? Or was it just a coincidence?

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. Look, on of the reasons I came to see you today was to find out anything I could about the crash. Is there anything you could tell me to help fill in the blanks?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Well, this thing robbed me of my past, my present, and left me with an unsure future. I'd like to know what actually happened. Wouldn't you?" I looked pointedly at the bandage wrapped around his head, and at the cast enfolding his leg. 

He nodded. "I wish I could help, but I honestly don't recall anything about the crash. The last thing I remember is that we were in our motel room in New Mexico, running from those government guys, and then poof I'm here. I've been racking my brain for weeks and come up with nothing. It's so aggravating!"

"I know what you mean. At least you remember some things. I don't even have that." I shook my head clear of my thoughts. "How much longer do you have in here?"

"A couple to days. My leg is almost entirely healed. They only keep me here because of some head trauma that has cleared up. How about you?"

"The same. As soon as I can walk by myself. Frankly, I can probably do it now, if I tried, but they won't let me. I am getting so sick of laying around. I wish they'd let me do something."

A smile lit up his face, and I could see his lineaments. Beneath the bruises, Mulder really is a handsome man.

His eyes are captivating, to say the least. When he smiles, they dance, and in the few short minutes I've known him, they must have changed color at least three times. He has this kind of goofy smile, lopsided almost. 

"Good to know you're still in there, Scully." 

I return his smile and wheel myself to the door. On a thought, I turn around to look at him

"When we get out of here, maybe we should get together and you can fill me in on my life." The suggestion is almost tentative, hesitant. 

But he nods and I smile, suddenly knowing that things are going to be just fine.

***

I shouldn't even be out of bed, let alone walking down the hall in search of a seemingly unobtainable past.

It has been two days since I spoke with Mulder, and I have come not closer to solving the mystery that has become my life. 

After conversing with Mulder, I began asking the doctors and nurses questions that they couldn't have possibly known the answers to. I want to know about the things he mentioned, as well as everything else.

The one thing I have gathered from the hospital personnel is that both Mulder and I are frequent patients. It didn't surprise me, considering my chosen line of work.

It occurred to me, though, that I might be able to pick up some memories from the environment, hence the pacing of the corridors.

Unfortunately, I've had no luck whatsoever. 

I'm still in recovery mode, and I expect I will be for a while. The doctors have seen me fit for release, and I will return to my Georgetown apartment later this afternoon. My mother, who I am slightly more comfortable with now, brought me the clothes in which I am wearing.

I got sick of the hospital gown and the grubby feeling that accompanied it, so I traded it in for the loose-fitting jeans and light green sweater in which I know wear.

I am snug in my clothing but not yet in my skin. My own name still startles me, as does any reference to my forgotten history. All of the nurses seem to know me, and I always get a friendly "Hi, Dana" when I pass any of them. It gives me the creeps, because I can't remember for the life of me who they are and how I know them.

After passing Mulders' room four times, the need to see him rises to my conscious. I don't know why or where it comes from exactly, but the need is just there, like so many unorganized thoughts.

He sleeps peacefully as I walk in the door. At the sight of him, lying there, smiling contentedly, all of my 5'1", 110-pound body quivers. 

He looks almost at home, and at that point I wonder just how much time each of us spent sleeping in beds identical to the one my partner is now in.

"Good morning, Dana," Mulders' doctor greeted me as she passed, going over to the monitor to check the reading. 

"What exactly did my partner injure, Dr. Adams?" The young woman took out Mulders' charts and then glanced at it before answering my question. 

"Broken leg, which has healed fully, tow broken ribs, a punctured lung, which we patched up. When he came in, ha had a severe concussion, which we kept under observation for the passed two weeks. He will make a full recovery, although those ribs are gonna hurt like hell for a while." She smiled weakly at me before leaving the room to tend to her next patient.

I looked at the sleeping man and turned to follow the doctor, let Mulder get some well-needed rest. 

Glancing at his charts, I saw that they had scheduled his release for later this afternoon, same as mine. Coincidence? I wonder.

I mosey on back to my room, to find my mother anxiously awaiting my return.

"Dana," She rose from the chair next to my empty bed.

"Hi, uh, mom," I say, still feeling a little nervous, as though I needed to prove to her that I really am who they say I am. Her daughter, Dana Katherine Scully. Not only do I feel the need to prove my identity to her, but myself as well. The only thin g I have to go on is the word of the people around me, none of whom I trust completely.

"How are you feeling, honey?" she asks me, motioning to the chair next to the one she is once again sitting in.

I sit. "Better, actually. I took a walk, cleared my mind a little, checked on Mulder."

My mother throws me an eager questioning glance, which I meet with my own blank, non-committal stare. 

I've discovered that she gives me the same inquisitive stare whenever Mulder comes up in one of our conversations, as if I'm not telling her all the details. She forgets, of course, that I can't remember the details of anything, much less to the relationship between my partner and me.

"How is Fox, dear? The nurse thought they might discharge him soon."

I nod. "Yeah, this afternoon, in fact. He seems to be doing okay. They removed the cast. When I stopped by this morning, he was asleep." I pause, "But he's pumped up pretty full with drugs. With all the morphine he's receiving, Mulder ought to be floating ten feet above his bed." 

I don't know how I know this, I just do. Like a sudden flash of knowledge, memory, if I'm lucky.

"Fox will be fine, Dana," my mother says, in response to the worried look that graces my features.

"I know Mom, it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

I wait a beat before speaking again, trying to gather the proper words to express my feelings.

"It's just, what if I never get my memory back? Mulder was crushed enough when I told him, what if it never comes back? I'll be a shadow of the woman I was, the woman everyone knew."

Mom takes my hand in her own older one, consoling me.

"I love you, Dana, and whether or not this amnesia wears off won't change that. For Fox either, I suspect. If worst comes to worst, you'll just have to make new memories. I'm sure you could enlist Fox's help in that department right away." Her tone is almost sly, but I let it pass.

I smile at my mothers' confidence. She really is amazing.

All mothers are, if you think about it. Bearing and raising children is no small feat. Of this I am sure. There is a mother with children in the room next to me, and they come to visit her all the time. Talk about loud! They run around, chasing each other, screaming in delight. It is very entertaining to watch, but it has given me more than one headache. 

Turning back to my mother, a thought comes upon me.

"What was our relationship like?"

"Whose? Yours and Fox?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know we worked together, and were friends. I also know that we slept together, resulting in a child, but... was it often? Did we have a romantic relationship or was it just a one-night-mistake? I hate not knowing, Mom." I sigh, sitting back down.

"Dana," She weighs her words carefully, as if afraid to overstep a boundary, "Fox cares for you immensely and no, I don't think you were just a one night stand. That man would do anything for you, Dana." Her last sentence was spoken with an immeasurable conviction,

Still, I couldn't help but wonder if her words were true.

"What about the future, did we have any plans?"

"None that I'm aware of, but you'd have to ask Fox to be sure."

I don't know what to say. I mean, I want to know, but asking Mulder directly wasn't my favorite option.

Not only would it be highly embarrassing, but also I'm sure asking him such a question would stir up some emotions in me that I really don't want to deal with.

Or it could go poorly, resulting in more emotions and hurt feelings.

Yeah, I can see it now.

< "Mulder, were we engaged?">

< "Hell no!" he'd scream in disgust, "You were just an easy lay, don't go making plans like that! Damn, Scully, it was fun and all, but I'd never want to be tied to you for the rest of my life!">

No, I best not ask him.

"Dana, honey?" my mom said, interrupting my silent reverie. "I'm going to check on Fox, want to come?"

"No thanks, Mom," I reply and at her confused look, I elaborate, "I'm kinda tired."

She nods sympathetically and exits my room gracefully.

I sigh, rising from the chair to lay down in my bed. I really should get some sleep. 

***

My house can be officially labeled as clean. Too clean for my liking, really.

First of all, I have absolutely no laundry to keep me busy, and I own only three sets of dishes. Three sets!

What kind of person only has three sets of dishes? It's insanity. First thing tomorrow I'm going to buy, like, ten plates. 

Anyhow, I must not entertain a while lot, even though my apartment is more organized than the Pentagon. 

I can't imagine why I would want to live like this. How much fun can a person have in here? Not much, that's the truth. 

The only thing I really like about this place is the fireplace. It's so romantic, so evocative. I can just imagine curling up in a mans' strong arms on my sofa, just watching the embers dance in the hearth and enjoy each others' company.

As I think that very thought, a weird sense of deja vu comes over me, taking me by surprise. It was as if I had done that very thing many times before.

Maybe I had.

I sit at my kitchen table, sipping hazelnut coffee out of one of my three mugs. Just the heat it brings to my hands soothes me, relaxes my tense muscles. The smell alone is enough to send a person to heaven. 

My ecstasy is interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone.

"Scully," I say, after picking up my cordless phone on the third ring.

"Scully, it's me." Mulder, of course it was Mulder. Who else would call me at- I glance at my watch- 11:21 PM? Certainly no one I know, save Mulder. 

"Hey Mulder, what's up?" I ask, drinking my coffee.

"Nothing in particular," he answers nonchalantly.

"So, you always call me at 11:30 for no reason at all?"

"All the time, Miss Scully. If you think about it, nothing can be quite interesting if you're discussing it with the right person." I could almost hear his goofy grin through the phone line.

"Is that right?" I finished my coffee and walked to the sink, holding the receiver against my ear with my shoulder. I begin washing the dishes in the sink with the bottle of 'Dawn' I found under the sink earlier. 

"It is, Scully. Anyway, I was wondering if you might want to come over so we can instill some of your forgotten memories." There was a slight leer in his voice, but I ignored it, scrubbing furiously at the pot that once held my Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

I had managed to burn it. How one burns Macaroni and Cheese is beyond me, but I apparently have the talent. I guess I wasn't a very good cook, even before the accident.

"Yeah, sure Mulder. But now?"

"Why not? If worst comes to worst, you could spend the night here." There was that innuendo again. This man seemed to be quite full of it. 

"Mulder," I warn him, "I'll be over in a minute, just let me finish doing the dishes." I pick up a dishtowel and begin drying my coffee mug. 

I hung up the phone without so much as waiting for a reply from the man on the end of the line.

Do our conversations always end like that? With one of us hanging up on the other? It had felt so normal, so natural, that at the time, I didn't give it a second thought. 

It was like so many movements I had made since returning home. Automatic, mechanical even.

Like how I knew which drawer in bureau held my shirts, and just which bath lotions to use and where the were. 

Things just come to me now, the flashes of memory becoming more frequent.

Although the knowledge came, it was always insignificant. A favorite color, or movie, the presidents' name, things like that. Nothing relevant to the past or the crash that stole it from me.

After drying the last dish and setting in its' respective cabinet, I grab my coat and walk out the door, locking it behind me.

Knock Knock

I rap my knuckles against the hard wood door of apartment 42.

"Scully, thank God," He opened the door for me, allowing me entrance. 

"Mulder, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing. I just; I realized a couple of minutes after we hung up that I hadn't given you my address or directions. I called you, but you had just left or something, and your cell phone was temporarily out of order. I panicked. Just glad that you're okay."

He took my coat from my shoulders, giving me an opportunity to look him over. 

Mulder was wearing a pair of loose, faded jeans, a white tee shirt, and his black leather jacket, which I found to be quite attractive.

"Mulder, do you know what this means?" I say excitedly, a big grin spreading across my face.

Smiling, he answered, "You had a memory, and judging by the way you're eyeing my fish, you're about to have another revelation."

It was true; I was staring rather intently at the fish tank, which surprisingly held two skinny goldfish. The UFO water bob caught my attention. Somehow, it suited Mulder excellently.

"They look hungry," I comment, making my way to the tank, taking care not to step on the scattered material littering his carpeted floor.

His apartment contrasted mine perfectly. Old clothes and magazines were strewn all over the living room, a bachelors' paradise. I spotted a basketball lying in the corner and an amused smile tugged at my lips.

Total opposites.

"You never cease to amaze me, Scully," he says as I drop a few flakes of food in the tank and watch the fish eagerly gobble it up.

"Really? The thing I'm amazed by is the fact that you can life like this." I indicate the pile of clothing at my feet.

"Oh, like your apartment is any better?" he shot back, "It's so clean I can see my reflection in your carpet!"

"Ha ha, very funny Mulder."

"I thought so."

I seated myself on his couch, lazily stretching my legs out before curling them underneath me.

He sat next to me, close enough to touch, but we weren't. Arms length.

"Where do I start?"

The ball now landed in my court, giving me control.

"The beginning," I replied, settling in the leather couch, ready for a long and interesting story. 

"Well, you and I met in March of 1993. Blevins had sent you to spy on me, to debunk the X-Files, invalidate my investigations into the paranormal. Those first few cases weren't easy, Scully. It didn't help that our personalities clashed pretty bad back then." He smiled at the thought as I waited patiently for Mulder to continue. 

"You were the skeptic, I was the believer. You were organized, I was..." We both looked around the apartment, coming to the same conclusion. "... well, not." I stifled a giggle. He had just made the understatement of the year.

I listened intently as he described to me the our first year together, laughing and gasping when it was appropriate.

As our partnership gradually grew into a friendship, and Mulder described the events of my abduction. I remained fascinated by the man sitting beside me.

How he told the stories without a falsetto of negative emotion, only strength and confidence took my breath away.

They were such dark tales and Mulder could make it wound like something from a children's comic book.

Although the story of my life was entertaining, it helped little.

Sometimes while he spoke, I'd get a mental image, but I don't know whether that was my own imagination or some scrap of memory pulled from my subconscious.

"So, then I burst through the door, gun in hand, scared to death, and I find you about this far away..." He caught me by surprise when he swooped in, stopping when his lips were less than a centimeter from mine.

It took every fiber of self-control in me to stop from kissing him and let him finish his story.

"...from kissing Van Blundht who coincidentally looked exactly like me." He backed away, cringing slightly. The pain medication he had been taking for his cracked ribs must be wearing off.

I got up, going into the kitchen to fetch his prescription. It amused me to find that I knew where everything was in his apartment too.

"That must have been really embarrassing," I holler, filling a glass with water.

"Here, take these," I say, handing him two red and white capsules and the water.

"Thanks," He gulped them down, "Yeah, it was," he said, replying to my earlier remark.

"No, I meant for me!"

"Well, probably," he agreed, "But it wasn't exactly a barrel of monkeys for me either. It was kind of unnerving to see you about to kiss me."

"Put yourself in my place, Mulder. You're abut to turn your world upside-down by kissing your devastatingly attractive partner, your best friend, your..." Panicked, searching for the right word, "... touchstone, when said person walks in the room and you find out that the man you almost kissed is a shape-shifting criminal."

"Point taken, although, Scully, I hope you'd know I'd never be about to kiss a man." He grinned that lopsided grin of his that makes him look all of ten years old.

"You, Mulder, were jealous," I continued, gleefully enjoying myself. 

"I was not!"

"Were too! You were jealous because Eddie Van Blundht with the silent 'h' got farther with me in 2 hours than you did in 4 years." My smile had turned from happy to sly, and I knew my eyes were twinkling. That may be due to the wine Mulder brought me about an hour ago. He didn't drink any because of his medication, but I had three glasses. 

Needless to say, I'm a little out of myself. Tipsy, I believe is the word.

"Scully?"

"Yeah Mulder?"

"I never mentioned Van Blundht's first name."

It took me a moment to realize what he meant. His words were sinking in, triggering some area of my brain, just like we had hoped.

"We're gonna get you back, yet, Scully." He reached out to me and tucked a piece of my auburn hair behind my ear, cupping my cheek affectionately with his hand.

I lean into his touch. "We are."

Then the yawn I've been suppressing escapes, breaking both the mood and my reserve. 

Simultaneously, we glance at our watches. 4:07.

"I had better go," I say. Getting up and straightening my clothing, I move towards the door.

"Wait, Scully," he beckons. He follows, but slower due to his injuries. "Don't tell me you're going to drive."

"No, Mulder, I'm riding a pink elephant," I say dryly, "Of course I'm driving." 

"You're too tired. Not to mention all that wine you drank."

"No, I'm..." I yawned again, "...not." I protested weakly.

Wordlessly, he swept me off my feet, and proceeded towards his bedroom, which was down the hall and to the right.

"Y'know, Mulder, last time you did this we had a considerable amount of foreplay first." He looked at me, eyes wide, and I nod. I do indeed recall 'last time.'

He set me on the bed and I roll in, not even bothering to kick off my shoes and remove my blazer like I normally do. I do take my gun our of its holster, though, and set it on the bedside table, next to the small lamp.

Tucking me in, he kissed my cheek and whispered, "G'night, Scully," in my ear.

"Goodnight, Mulder."

He walked out, or rather; he hobbled out, of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

I sigh. It feels good, knowing I've accomplished something, and that there's still hope for a full recovery, and in that, hope for the future.

The sheets smell deliciously like Mulder, a combination of after-shave, peppermint, and something just... Mulder. The musty scent that was him.

I turn on my side, only to come face to face with at least a dozen sunflower seeds.

"Mulder!" I yell playfully, "Get your ass in here!"

"Yes ma'am," he replied in the same military fashion, rushing into the bedroom, wearing nothing but a pair of black silk boxers which I happen to like immensely. 

"What is it, Scully?" he asks, drawing my attention away from his underwear, and back to his beautiful face.

"What is this?" I demand, holding out a handful of seeds. "And what are they doing in my bed?" I raise my left eyebrow at him in mock-accusation.

"I believe they're sunflower seeds, Dr. Scully. As to what the seeds are doing in my bed, I was eating them while reading the paper this morning, and I must have left a few in here." He motioned to the newspaper on the nightstand.

"Okay, Mulder, just clean up next time," I reprimand.

"Yes, Mom!" He sits beside me, picking up all the seeds from the blue pillow.

Feeling brave, and after much deliberation, I say, "Now, kiss your mother goodnight and off with you."

Without a bit of faltering her placed a gentle kiss on my lips, one in which I revel in, enjoying the short caress for all it was worth.

"May I join my mother in bed tonight so her poor little boy won't have awful scary nightmares about monsters under the bed?"

"Mulder..."

"Okay, I'll take the couch. Good ni..."

"No, Mulder, I didn't mean that. I meant don't do the mother/son thing. It's kind of a big turn off if you know what I mean." I feel a blush rush to my cheeks, and I thank God for the semi-darkness.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that, Scully. I just... I want to hold you."

Okay, so I don't much care for the little kid voice, but I have never been able to resist his big puppy dog eyes.

I scoot over, making room for my boxer-clad partner.

He takes me into his harboring arms, and I immediately feel safer than I have since I woke up from my coma a week and a half ago.

God, I'm in ecstasy, right here in his arms. The electricity pulsing through my body is hard to ignore, but I try anyway. I'm so hopeless.

<We just fell asleep, spooned up like little cats, ain't that right, honeybunch?>

<That's right, poopyhead.>

Yay, another unexplained memory to add to my seemingly endless collection. I must have Mulder explain all this some day. Maybe tomorrow.

Well, spooning accurately describes our position tonight.

We are laying on our sides, his arms wrapped around my waist, knees slightly bent. My hands cover his on my stomach, and my legs mirror the position his have adapted. 

We are at utter peace, just listening to each other breathe. He won't fall asleep any time soon. 

At his rate, I'll never fall asleep, not in a million years.

But I don't care.

***

I don't remember falling asleep, only waking up in his arms.

The familiar scent of Mulder surrounded me, engulfing me in him. God, it feels good. Better than I could have ever imagined.

His arms are wrapped securely around me, holding me to him tightly.

I dare not stir, for fear of waking him and disturbing this solemn moment of peace and joint contentment. Still, happy sigh escapes my lips and Mulder's eyes flutter open.

I can't see him, of course, since he is behind me, but I sense it somehow, just know that he has woken from his slumber.

"Morning, Mulder," I murmur softly, shifting position until I could face him. We are almost nose to nose, and I can't help but smile at our close proximity.

"Hey Scully." He sounds almost shy, like a little boy afraid of the Bogeyman, but amazed just the same.

The phone rang shrilly, breaking the delicate spell woven between during those brief waking moments.

"Scully," I answer briskly, after grabbing the phone on the bedside table.

"Agent Scully," came the voice.

"Oh, hello, sir. What do you need?" I greet my former boss, Assistant Director Skinner. A nice man, he visited me in the hospital too.

"I'm calling in regards to the whereabouts of Agent Mulder." I immediately tense, glancing to the man currently snuggled up in sheets.

"Agent Mulder, sir?"

"Yes, Agent Scully. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?" 

I stumble over my words, unsure of what to say and how to say it. 

"Have you tried his apartment?" I suggest. I knew where Mulder was, but Skinner really didn't need to know that. He might get the wrong ideas. Hell, the pope would get the wrong ideas if I told him where Mulder was.

"Agent Scully..." he says impatiently.

"Is he not there, sir?"

Yeah, play dumb. Good strategy. Too bad he's not buying it, Dana. I tell myself.

"Well, Agent Scully, I have tried calling Agent Mulder's apartment."

"Was he not home?"

"I'm in the midst of trying to figure that out," he states pointedly, "Agent Scully, are you aware that you are talking on Mulder's phone?"

Oh damn. Busted. I can feel the heat rising in the room. As I look around, I see that I am, in fact, occupying Mulder's apartment, and his bed.

"Uh, here you go, sir," I hear him chuckle as I pass the phone quickly to Mulder, as if it were a burning piece of coal or something of the like.

"Sir, good morning," I hear Mulder say cheerily, grinning like an idiot at me.

I block out the rest of their conversation, concentrating on my own thoughts.

Despite Mulder's comfort, I had slept restlessly, plagued by horrid nightmare that one couldn't even begin to picture.

Although I ought to just brush them off as figment of my overactive imagination; manifestations of my own real-world fears, I don't. 

How can I do that with all Mulder told me last night? I have a feeling that discerning a nightmare from memory will become more and more difficult as the days- or more accurately, the nights- go by.

Last nights' dream- memory, whatever you want to call it- was quite strange.

I dreamt of a place. It's hard to describe, really. I remember being cold, really, really cold. The frostbite was already attacking my naked body, my toes and fingers especially. It was like some sort of surreal science fiction movie, in which I was the star.

So, there I was, covered in green goo- although no longer nude- hanging upside down from God-knows-where. Somebody's shoulder, maybe.

The only things I could see were these... Things. There really is not other way to describe them. Vile creatures, hideous beasts. They were big, with slimy green skin that glistened revoltingly in the partial light, and long, sharp talons that looked like they could rip apart any substance known to man.

These Things were in some kind of ice capsules, in which they were quickly breaking fee of. Reaching for me, that what they were dong. Clawing at me. At us.

At that point, I realized that I wasn't alone. Someone held me in a fireman's carry, while making slow progress through the hallways, if you could call it that.

Then black. Total and utter darkness.

My dream paused for a moment, at a point where I neither saw nor heard anything.

And then I felt Mulder lips on mine, breathing life into me. Those pouty, sensuous lips had met mine at last, and I sensed that I had wanted this for a long time.

CPR. It figures.

I almost thought that it was a different dream until I noticed how absolutely freezing I was. I felt like a big block of ice, frozen peas maybe. Anyway, I was cold, and iciness seemed to be the telltale sign of my awful nightmare.

I pulled him to me, and whispered hoarsely in his ear, "I got you big time."

I don't know why I did, but like in most dreams, I had no control over my actions, including the words I spoke.

There was steam rising from everywhere and more of those Things reaching at us. I had felt Mulder hoist me somewhere, a pipe of some kind. I crawled, looking back every so often to make sure Mulder was following me. 

I could see the exit, physically see my way out when...

"Scully," Mulder's voice carried me out of my daydream and back into reality.

"Huh?"

"Earth to Scully," He waved a hand in front of my fact to capture my full attention.

"Yeah, sorry," I manage, shaking my head, as if doing so would make the green creatures disappear from my minds eye entirely.

"You were kinda off in your own world, Scully. Care to tell?"

"Mulder, have we ever been someplace really cold?"

Okay, I even I know that I sound stupid, but I need to know and other, more intelligible words just aren't coming right now.

"Where did that come from?" he asks, surprised.

"Well, I had this weird dream and I wanted to know it..."

"Maybe it wasn't only a dream,?" he finishes, nodding. "Well, then, in answer to your question, we have been to our share of cold places. Many in fact. Any particular place you had in mind?"

"Well, it was really cold and there were these...Things coming out of pods in the wall and you were carrying me and..." I stopped, "This sounds incredibly weird, but I swear it seemed so real." 

I looked down, slightly embarrassed. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder, rubbing in small gentle circles.

"That's because it was real." And he smiled the biggest grin I think I've ever seen.

Suddenly I have no more doubts about my relationship with this man. Whether it be residual emotions, memory, ore some wicked conclusion I have just made, I love Mulder. Sure, I'm not gonna tell him that, but at least I know.

"What did Skinner have to say?" I ask, broaching a new subject.

"Well, he was extremely amused to hear you at my place in such a state of total confusion."

I give him a 'look' that says, 'Don't you dare even go there, Fox Mulder, or you'll be peeing through a catheter.' And I let him continue.

"And?"

"And Skinner reminded me to lay low for a while, in case the government men are still after our asses." Upon seeing my puzzled expression, he sighed. "I'll explain later."

"What else did he want?" I probed.

"He said that he had the police and accident reports involving our crash. Said we might be interested to see them. Agents Reyes and Doggett will drop them off at your apartment later."

Another look, another explanation.

"Monica Reyes and John Doggett. The two other agents on the X-Files. They're also personal friends of ours."

He's exasperated, I can tell. I don't blame him, I really don't. I mean who wouldn't be at least a little pissed? Answering endless questions and such can get on your nerves.

So, I settle for a noncommittal "Oh," and head to the bathroom to freshen up.

*** 

True to his word, Skinner sent the other two agents to my place two hours later.

The knock at the door interrupted my womanly primping. I take a final glance in the mirror and go to the door.

"Dana, hi!" says a tall, dark-haired woman, who pulls me into a quick embrace. "I'm sorry we couldn't come earlier. John and I were in Mississippi for a case when you woke from your coma."

I smile pleasantly, ushering them in. The man, John, greeted me politely and then followed the woman, whom I presume to be Monica Reyes, into my living room where Mulder sat.

"Agent Mulder," Doggett says, offering a hand to my partner. "Good to see you're not dead or in jail. I was beginning to wonder..."

Mulder took it, shaking it in some kind of manly greeting which we women couldn't understand. Monica looks at me and we both roll our eyes at their behavior.

We all take seats, Doggett and Reyes on my couch, Mulder and I in chairs we had pulled from the kitchen.

"I meant to thank both of you," Mulder says, "for defending me in court last month."

All fell silent. Apparently, it was a difficult subject. I wouldn't know, of course, since I can only remember things that have happened since I've been awake. A trial did not fall under that category.

Finally, Monica spoke up. "You're welcome, too bad it didn't work. Maybe we wouldn't be sitting here under such stressful circumstances."

"They played dirty. It wasn't your fault. They attacked Agent Doggett's skepticism, your fiery temper, and Agent Scully's integrity."

Mulder was speaking to Reyes, who only nodded and looked at Doggett. 

By the way she's looking at him, I can only help but wonder if they're involved. I'll ask Mulder later, but I'll bet 10-1 that they are, or will be soon.

"So," Agent Doggett spoke up, "How are you feeling? Last time we saw you, Agent Scully, you were out cold, and nobody knew when and if you'd wake up. Agent Mulder was still high on the drugs they were pouring in his system."

I smiled, "Physically, I'm fine, but my memory is still beyond my grasp." Agent Reyes nodded and smiled sympathetically, "Agent Mulder, however, is still high on those drugs. He's taking regular painkillers for his broken ribs and for various other things. Could be worse, though."

Mulder grinned like a little kid at Christmas, unwrapping all his wonderful gifts. I love that look on him. I love any look on him, matter-of-factly.

"I'm sure," says Doggett. "Now, we'd love to stay an chat, but Skinner's had us working some tough hours since you two pulled the disappearing act. He gave us some papers to deliver, and deliver we must. Monica..." 

Reyes pulled a manila file out of seemingly nowhere, and handed it to me, grimacing slightly. Right then I knew that whatever was in that folder, wasn't going to be pretty and fluffy like I had silently hoped for.

Doggett and Reyes stand to leave.

"If you ever need anything," offers Reyes, "we'll be here."

"Thanks Monica, John," I say as they leave, his hand at the small of her back.

"I like them," I pronounce as soon as the door was shut firmly behind the exiting agents.

"Good," Mulder says, "Me too."

"Are they..." He cut me off.

"No, although I don't think it'll take very long. From the look on his face, he's been wanting to jump her bones for a while, and from the look on her face, I doubt she'd object."

I laugh. God, it feels good. How long has it been since I've laughed? I mean really laughed? Too long, I decide, and vow to do it more often.

I wasn't asking the question, and Mulder wasn't offering any answers.

Sitting in silence like this, we were getting precisely nowhere, moving backwards even. I need to fix that.

"Mulder," I begin, "I need to know more. I can't rely on stories and dreams alone. These things you were talking about with Doggett and Reyes, about court and a trial, are totally new to me, and I doubt I can be of much help like this. Without most of my memory, I don't think I can figure out what happened with the crash." I sigh audibly.

"What do you mean, Scully? What does the crash have to do with any of this?" He looks bewildered, a rare look on Fox Mulder. 

"That's just it, Mulder, I don't know. But, I have this weir and annoying feeling that tells me we need to investigate."

"I've been having feelings like that for years, Scully."

"Yes, and we've always investigated them. Just indulge me on this one, okay? My guess is that they reasons for both the crash and my amnesia are in here." I hold up the folder to a still-confused Mulder. 

"Are you saying that it wasn't as simple as it may seem?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

I see a flash of recognition in his eyes, a hunger for the truth, a hunger I suspect will always be there.

"But why?"

"First of all, Mulder, aside from my memory loss, I have no physical injuries, not including minor cuts and bruises. Even with my coma and everything, there was no head trauma."

"What?"

"I didn't have any sort of concussion, or bruises even. No sever blood loss, nothing at all to trigger my comatose state. It makes no sense whatsoever."

"Are you saying Scully, that your wounds and mental state were inflicted by something other than the explanation offered to us?"

Exasperated, I drop the folder and throw up my hands in mock-surrender.

"Mulder, what I'm saying is that we need to look into this thoroughly. It may provide some answers."

Yes, it may, I think, maybe even to the questions we have yet to ask.

***

Hours later, after reading both the police and accident reports, I put one of the missing puzzle pieces into place. 

"Mulder, look at this," I hand him the diagram drawn by the police chief who discovered us.

The sketchy drawing showed our car, a blue Taurus, careening off the road and into a large oak tree.

According to it, the tree connected squarely with the drivers' side.

"I'm looking, Scully, but what am I supposed to be seeing?" He gazes intently at the diagram, searching for some kind of clue that he had previously looked over.

That was his problem. He was searching too hard, looking in too deep. He was oblivious to the simple facts, the surface. Only when I stopped hunting for the core did I realize what I had missed. 

"Now look at this," I pass him the police report, turned to the page I wanted him to look at. He skimmed it over far more quickly than I expected, and when he looked up, I knew he had made the connection. 

"Our injuries don't match." I node, letting him continue, "It says here that Officer Malone found you in the drivers seat, and me in the passenger. If that were the case, your physical damage would have been far greater than mine."

"And," I proceed, ecstatic that we are finally making progress, "it also says that you weren't wearing a seat belt. Your broken ribs contradict that. If you did, indeed hit the dashboard like suggested, given your height, your bottom few ribs should have been broken. Your broken ribs are the top and left two," I smile at our triumph. Things were falling into place after all.

"Plus," he adds, "I never let you drive."

We slap hands in a juvenile high five and I sum up our discovery. 

"So, that means, given the evidence- both physical and circumstantial- we did not crash that Taurus. Our bodies were placed in that car after it had been run into that tree."

"Yes, I think we can safely establish that conclusion. The question is, who did this to us?"

I look him straight in the eye, "And why?"

*** 

"Yes, sir... no sir... I understand, sir but..." My partner is having a phone conversation with Skinner, trying to find information, and failing dismally. 

He pressed the 'End' button on his cell phone and turned to face me. "Skinner knows nothing."

"Then why send us the file?" I question, my head spinning slightly as I pace the lengths of my small living room. I steady myself on a chair and keep walking. 

"He said that he knew I'd ask for them sooner or later, so he gathered all he could and put his Bureau credentials into use."

I sigh, partially from defeat, partially from simple fatigue. 

We had gone on for hours, nit-picking the various materials that Skinner had sent, having little luck finding anything new.

Mulder rattled off the names of our enemies, or people that had motive to hurt us. I think it would have gone quicker if he had named that people that weren't out to get us. That list would have been considerably shorter. I wasn't surprised when that list went into double digits. From the stories Mulder had told me last night, I have deduced that he is too nosy for his own good and I am too dedicated for mine. So, I can imagine that there would be a substantial amount of people that would want us dead. And, quite a number of them would take action on that impulse. 

"Well, I think we can safely assume that he's telling the truth. So, we have no actual suspects?" I say, shuffling through the stack of papers in my hands, waiting for something to stand out and scream 'Clue!'

"Oh, no," Mulder argues, "We have plenty of suspects, just no evidence to back up any of our claims." He dropped his stack. "What are we doing here, Scully? Paperwork? We ought to be out in the field, checking out the crime scene and interviewing some of these suspects of ours." He cringed as he sat down, then plastered a faux smile on his face to try and mask the pain he was feeling. 

"You're in no condition to be doing field work, Mulder, but I don't think I need to tell you that. Do you need more medicine?"

"Yeah, I'm long overdue for my noon dose." He grabbed my wrist as I walk to the closet to get the prescription from the pocket of his leather jacket. "I'll get it, Scully."

I nod, understanding perfectly. He doesn't like feeling helpless, and when I try to mother him, his sense of independence go haywire. I've had that same feeling ever since I was released from the hospital. Like they were afraid to leave me alone. 

Now that I think about it, either Mom or Mulder has been there with me since the accident. I haven't had a decent two hours of alone time.

I'm gonna have to do something about that. When Mulder returns, I spin his around, pushing him in the direction of the door.

"We can work on this some more tomorrow, Mulder. Right now I just need to relax and I'll be you do too. So, you're going to go back to your apartment and do whatever it is you do until tomorrow. I am going to take a nice soothing bath, and maybe go..."

"Need any help, Scully?" he interjected, leering at me.

"And then I think I'll go shopping or something productive like that." I ignore him, trying my hardest to keep a poker face.

"I could scrub your back, Scully." I again shove him towards the door.

"Go home, Mulder."

"Are you kicking me out, Agent Scully?" He does that pouty lip thing again, which most often I succumb to. But today, right now, I am in the no mood for such games. 

"Yes, Agent Mulder, I most certainly am."

It's not that I don't like Mulder. I do, I may even love the man, but right now, he's just driving me up the wall, pure and simple.

He understands, I know he does, and I think he finally gets it that I mean business. 

"Okay, Scully, see you tomorrow."

I open the door, hearing the slight creak as it moves on its hinges. "Bye, Mulder."

With a smile, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Solitude at last!

I run into my bedroom and immediately launch myself on the neatly made bed, which was covered with fluffy pillows. I bounce several times before going over to my bureau of drawers to pick out some more comfortable clothing than my customary work attire.

After searching for a bit, I finally decide on a faded pair of blue jeans and a mind green tee shirt.

Garments and robe in hand, I march purposefully to the bathroom across the hall. A bath will feel so good, will ease my sore and tense muscles.

I plug up the drain and let water fill the basin. I found that I prefer water on the hot side, but no scalding. Today though, I add a little more hot water than I have in the past.

Digging in the cabinet beneath the sink proved to be a fruitful exercise. I pull out the lavender scented bubble bath and dump nearly a quarter of it in the slowly filling tub. You only live once, right?

Yeah, that's me, lil' miss live it up, whose only thrills in life are taking bubble baths- alone, for that matter, chasing aliens and proving her partner wrong. Oh yeah, Miss Carpe Diem.

I quickly discard my clothing and sink into the tub.

The luxurious water gently caresses my body, the small waves made by my movements teasing my soft pale skin. Tiny bubbles float heavenward, only to stop in mid-flight as the air pressure eventually comes to be too much for their flimsy form. Why I notice these things completely escapes me.

A bubble bath is one of life's greater pleasures. From the warm water enveloping your naked body, to the euphoric scent of the weightless white bubble tickling your nose, a bath is a taste of heaven. Here, I can just sit and relax, letting the day's tension drain from my limbs. An occasional thought may occur, but nothing of too serious a nature. Or, it could be just the opposite, depending on the person. A bath could instill bouts of genius, or the single most brilliant idea a man has ever heard. I think I read somewhere that Albert Einstein spent a great portion of his life in the tub.

But today, for me, this bath is for relaxing purposes only. I don't want any scientific breakthroughs, nor any personal ones for that matter. I only want the lavender to engulf me, giving me the little taste of paradise I so long for.

Then again, what is paradise, utopia? Is there any true perfection in this harsh, cruel world? And if there is, how much of that life is a lie? In order for such a society to exist, people would have to totally block out the environment outside of their Arcadian walls. In a sense, if this place, this perfect world is real, everyone in it would be living the worst lie possible. A lie to embellish another lie. A lie to hide the truth.

It horrifies me that people can live that way, ignoring the obvious suffering that surrounds them. People these days are so self-centered, so egocentric that they don't give a damn when another man is lying on the street, breathing his last breaths.

I'm not saying that I don't possess any of those traits. Everyone does, to some extent. It's only human. It's whether or not you choose to act on the feeling that defines true character. 

As I sit here, contemplating these far too depressing topics, I realize that my fingers and toes are beginning to prune. 

Yes, I, Dana Scully, am a prune. You never would have guessed by looking at me, but I wrinkle up like somebody's 93-year-old grandma when I soak in the water too long.

I stand exit the tub, dripping wet, and grab my soft white towel from the ledge near my marble sink. I wrap it around my shivering body and my gooseflesh disappears.

After drying myself thoroughly I slip on my bra and panties with ease. I proceed to do the same with my outer articles of clothing, only to fine, to my dismay, that they jeans a picked are a size to big. For some reason, it irritates me.

So, I walk across the hall to my bedroom, in a tee shirt and cotton underwear to fin a pair of pants that won't fall off my hips.

Finally, I settle for a pair of black slacks and mosey on over to my living room, to find myself totally and utterly bored to death.

There's nothing on TV, unless you count Alex Trebeck, or Rosie O'Donnell, or some Australian guy chasing around crocodiles and other reptiles.

I find a magazine rack at the end of the couch and begin leafing through its contents.

Science Journal.

Forensics Today

Modern Medicine.

I had absolutely no life whatsoever, did I? 

Ah ha! Eureka! Cosmopolitan! At last, something worth my time. 

I flip through the ads; lipstick, perfume, tampons, clothing, shoes, your typical magazine junk. There was even one of those perfume samples in the middle.

Then, I notice that one page, one article has been turned down, bookmarked. Even though it is near the back of the magazine, curiosity gets the best of me.

I nearly scream when I see the title. In big, bold, green letters, it reads;

WHEN FRIENDS BECOME LOVERS, HOW TO GET HIM TO COME AROUND.

I look again at the cover. September/October 2000.

My, my, what a seductress I was, planning ahead like I did. Poor Mulder, he didn't stand a chance, if this composition had anything to say about it. 

Mulder. I miss him. I haven't even been alone for my two hours and already I'm pining for him. How lame is that?

It's a good thing we aren't married. If I can't stand to be without him for an hour, imagine what it would be like with him going to work while I stayed home to rear the young'uns or whatnot. 

Not that having a family with Mulder would be bad, quite the contrary, really, just not as exciting as the life we seem to have already. Fieldwork wins over laundry any day, even if it is chasing phantom aliens.

I look back at the essay, read the first few sentences, and close the magazine. Oh yeah, I was good. Sneaky...

I glance at my wristwatch. 5:23. Maybe I should cook some dinner or something.

I instantaneously laugh off the idea. I can't even cook Macaroni and Cheese without burning it. Attempting to actually cook something that doesn't come from a box or the freezer may be fatal. No, take-out is the safe way to go. 

I wonder if you can get take-out salads.

My thoughts are interrupted by my ringing cell phone. Of course, I don't have a clue as to where it might be, considering that I haven't seen it since yesterday. So, I move in the direction of the sound, praying that the person calling doesn't hang up. 

As soon as I find my phone- in the fridge of all places- the ringing ceases.

"Shit," I curse. Figures I'd leave it in my refrigerator. I was pretty absent-minded yesterday. It makes me think, though. If I am capable of chilling my cell phone, what other stupid thing have I done that I have yet to discover? 

Also, was I this much of a- for lack of a better word- ditz before the accident, or is it a more recent development?

There is a loud, insistent knock at my door. It's probably my mother. 

I sigh and open the door.

Mulder. Carrying pizza.

"Mulder," I say, trying to be annoyed. "I said I'd see you tomorrow, which translates into: Don't call me, I'll call you."

Somehow, he makes his way into my apartment, and hands me the pizza box, which, might I add, smells wonderful. That sneaky little devil, trying to appeal to my stomach, and man, it was working. 

"Yeah, well, I tried to call ya, Scully, but you didn't answer your cell." I blush furiously, "Anyway, I thought I'd bring by some food that wasn't green and leafy, or rabbit food."

He smiled that goofy grin, and went into the living room, flopping on the couch.

"Mulder..."

"What can I say, Scully? I miss you."

Okay, forget feigned annoyance. This guy is too sweet. It's almost sick to the point of perversity. But not really. Not even close.

"All right, Mulder, but next time I kick you out, you stay out." I was strict, I was firm, and I was laughing like a hyena. 

Mulder gave me a strange look, and I set the pizza box on the coffee table, absentmindedly wondering what kind he got.

"What's so funny?" he asks me.

"You, me, us, everything. This whole damn planet is hilarious."

I don't know what came over me, I just feel so giddy all of the sudden. I can't explain it. I can't describe it, and I really wouldn't want to. I only want to enjoy this euphoria while it lasts.

I walk into the kitchen and grab the bottle of white zinfandel from the fridge and two crystal wineglasses from my cabinet. I did get out to the store, and I am proud to say that I bough many more dishes than my original three, and my cabinets are now stocked.

I again join Mulder on the couch, set the glasses by the now open pizza box. I pop the cork and pour us both a full glass of the white wine.

"Thanks, Scully." He took his glass from me and raised it for a toast. "To memories, both old and new."

I echo his toast and we clink our glasses together, and drink, my eyes never leaving his beautiful face.

He looked surprisingly tired, his eyes heavy with a fatigue that he may not even be aware of. I wonder what he's done today in our time apart. Has he thought about me? Did he play basketball with his friends? Does he even have any friends to do things with? I find myself wanting to know these things about this man.

What is his favorite color? Favorite movie? Favorite food? How would he spend his Sunday afternoon, if he didn't have any obligations?

"Green, Men in Black, pizza, and with you."

I'm shocked. How did he... Had I spoken aloud? Or were we so attuned to each other that he knew what I was thinking?

"Uh..."

"You were whispering, Scully. I'm not psychic anymore."

Anymore? His comment confuses me, sending my head spinning. I have missed so much that I can't even understand such a simple reference as 'anymore'.

Mulder must have seen the look I hold on my face, for he tried to explain. "Well, one time, about two years ago, I began hearing..."

I interrupt. "No." He looks at me strangely. "No, Mulder, I don't want an explanation. I want to remember these things for myself. Wen you tell me these stories, I feel like I'm listening to just that... a story. It's no different to me than watching some drama on TV. Like everything you are saying happened to someone else entirely." I pause, taking a long, deep breath while Mulder waits patiently for me to continue.

"I want to wait, to be able to recall the memories for myself. Then they will be more real."

He looks at me blankly and then the impassable expression fades to one of anxiety and gentle concern. 

"But what if..." I cut him off again, not able to let him say where that thought was going. I couldn't even let him think it, let alone speak the words aloud.

It was a question I frequently ask myself, sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with worry. More often the latter. That particular thought always lay dormant in my subconscious, regardless of whether I request it's presence or not.

"No, Mulder, don't. I will get it all back, it's just a matter of time."

But is it? Do I really believe that? Or am I just living the lie like so many have done, and so many continue to do?

"But Scully, how do you know?" he asks, begging me to offer some plausible reasoning to support my conclusion.

"I don't," I answer calmly, "but I do have somewhat of a start. My dream last night adds on to several slight flashes of things, things that could have happened to us." I smile wryly.

"Such as?"

"Such as this scary flukeman thing- really gross- and a woman, some bitch named Diana." He chuckles at this, looking up at me, honesty shining through his eyes. 

"Okay, they'll come, Scully. I have faith in you."

Standing, he collects our glasses, which surprisingly were emptied of the wine that had once filled them. I look at the bottle. It too is empty. There hadn't been much in it; in fact, only enough for out two glasses.

"I think I have some iced tea in the fridge," I offer, getting up from my comfortable position on the couch.

"No, Scully." Holding up a hand, he stops my movement. "I'll get it." 

He heads toward the kitchen and I tumble back into a reclining position.

"Hey, Scully?" Mulder hollers from the next room.

"Yeah?"

"Any particular reason your cell phone is in the fridge?"

***

"You're sure that nothing came back on the tox screen?" I say into my now-thawed cell phone.

"No, Dana, I'm sorry. The blood that was screened, however, was taken several hours after the crash." Monica replied.

Her voice was controlled, even, yet I could sense her excitement. I guess her and John don't get much fieldwork, because when I mentioned that I want to check out the crash site, she practically squealed into the phone. Any excuse to kick bad-guy-booty, I suppose.

"So the tox results may not be completely accurate?" I twirl the number-two pencil I am holding gin my hand, and look at the nearly blank pad of paper in front of me.

"Well, I'm no doctor, but I say there was plenty of room for error. Also, put into consideration the fact that there is not drug, medical or otherwise that can inflict the kind of amnesia you're suffering from." I hear Monica sigh as I lay the pencil down.

"What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying, Dana, is that there is no drug on earth that could incur your present condition."

She emphasized the words 'on earth' and I groan inwardly. I really don't want to hear this.

"My theory is that," she pauses for what I suspect to be dramatic effect, "you and Mulder were abducted."

Oh not. Not this again. Flying saucer and little green-gray, whatever- men are not my idea of a party. 

"Monica, I really don't think..."

"I'll bet anything that's what Mulder thinks," she retorts. I flinch.

"I doubt it." It sounds lame, even to me, like some pathetic attempt to justify myself, which it was. 

"Have you asked him?" Monica says pointedly.

"Well," I hesitate. "Not exactly, but I honestly don't think he'd jump so far as alien abduction."

"Dana..." She doesn't buy it either. I never was a good liar, even over the phone.

I rise from my desk, using one hand to hold the phone to my ear and the other to massage the knots that had accumulated in my neck.

"Okay, just don't gloat." I concede and Monica snickers softly.

"I'll try. Look, I'll pick you up in half an hour and we'll drive to the site of the accident."

That's another thing; we try not to call it 'the crash' anymore, since it really wasn't one. Now it's 'the accident' which is slightly more accurate.

"Great, Monica, thanks." I hang up the phone and meander my way into the bedroom to dig out more appropriate clothing than my silk pajama bottoms and the ratty gray tee shirt I found in my drawer last night.

Eventually, I decide on a navy blue pantsuit with a pressed white blouse. Clothing, however was the easy part.

Looking in my closet was like winning the lottery. I never realized I had so many shoes, all of which had at least three inches of heel. How the hell did I do field work in those?

Fifteen minutes later, there was a soft knock on my door. A faint rapping, really.

"Come in!" I holler from my position at the bathroom sink, where I quickly ran a brush through my auburn hair.

"You ready, Dana?" asks Monica after she opens my unlocked door.

I emerge from the bathroom hurriedly, grabbing my gun from the coffee table and shoving it forcefully into the holster at my hip. I hope I remember how to use the damn thing. No, wait, I hope I don't have to find out.

Mulder is taking me down to the Bureau's firing range later this afternoon, but if we run into trouble... At least Monica knows how to use her weapon. That's comforting... sort of.

"Come on, let's go," I urge, walking out the door, leaving Agent Reyes in my metaphoric dust, so to speak.

Upon arriving at County Road 14, the alleged scene of the crime, I question Monica on our reasoning. I seem to have forgotten it.

"Monica, why are we here? What are you expecting to find?"

"I don't know." She exits the car, and once spotting the large oak tree, increases her pace, moving toward it. 

I struggle to keep up, twice tripping over the heels of my black suede pumps. Damn shoes.

"I'll just get a feeling, an intuition, if you will."

We circle the magnificent tree, both of us thoroughly impressed with its grand proportions. It must have been 100 feet tall and five feet in diameter. That tree is almost as fat as I am tall. Now that is just sad. 

The leaves are a delightful shade of yellowish orange, and the fall air is doing it wonders.

Nature's beauty rarely ceases to amaze me. Ever since I've been released from the cold walls of the hospital, I've taken time to smell the flowers and generally enjoy my surroundings. It's like opening my eyes for the first time, which, actually isn't too far off the mark.

"Dana, over here." Monica was on the other side of the immense tree, and I walked through the grass to reach her and what had drawn her attention. The green blades of the grass tickle my ankles as I stride; it needs to be cut. 

"What is it?" I ask, kneeling down next to the dark haired woman inspecting the great oak. 

She's running her hand over a certain section of the tree that has red flecks over it. "It's pain," Monica replies, "Car paint." 

"I wonder..."

My thought is interrupted by a loud bang and an explosion on tree bark. 

Instinctively, I roll out of the way, stand and draw my gun from its holster. I face the bush where the two shots had come from. Two? I look back and only then do I realize that Monica is no longer with me.

I look straight, searching for our attacker, but out of my peripheral vision I see my fellow agents motionless body, a trickle of deep red staining the slightly brown grass. Blood.

Oh, God! My stomach lurches at the sight of it. The smell of it is repulsive, nauseating, and makes my head spin for a moment. 

A moment too long.

The bushes rustle and something dashes deeper into the forest. 

"Stop! FBI!" I holler, giving chase. 

The man is tall, I can see that much. His clothing is dark, and he is wearing a black ski mask.

My heart beats rapidly in my chest as my short, but muscular legs take me faster. It is of no conscious effort, only instinct and pure adrenaline that I am running off of now. 

When I have a clear shot, I take advantage of the opportunity presented to me, firing three shots.

After the third shot, he goes down, crumpling to the ground.

Organizing my priorities, I pull out my cell phone and dial 911. "Yes, this is Special Agent Dana Scully, I've got an agent down..." I explain my position and the 911 operator promises to have an ambulance here within ten minutes. The problem is, I don't know if Monica has that long.

Despite the metallic scent of the blood, I find myself at Monica's side, examining her injury. A bullet wound to the chest. God, there's blood everywhere; her clothes are soaked with the deep red hue.

Without thinking, I remove my navy suit jacket and try to compress the gaping hole in her chest. Maybe if I stop, or at least slow, the blood flow, she'll live.

Monica has a pulse, albeit a thready one. 

I continue to try and stop the bleeding, my hands getting soaked in the process. Soaked with blood.

When the paramedics arrive, I leave them to do their jobs, while I do mine.

I trek back to where I shot our attacker, expecting to find a dead or dying my lying in a pool of his own blood.

Instead, I see a dead deer, wounds to the chest, neck, and head. 

***

"You're saying a deer picked up a SIG Saur 9 millimeter and shot this woman?" This police officer was really starting to tick me off. I had told him three times already, and he just wasn't understanding.

I was at the police station, and this guy was taking my report.

Granted, he was young; 22 or 23 from the looks of him, and I doubt he's had much experience with this kind of thing. Still though, I'm tired and I just want to go home.

"Listen officer..." Mulder's hands on my shoulders stop my speech.

"I'm sure we can resolve this tomorrow, Officer Bradley. I think Miss Scully just needs some rest." I hadn't even seen him approach. More importantly, I hadn't sensed him. It worries me.

Officer Bradley paused and then nodded.

I looked at Mulder appreciatively then we exited the station, his hand at the small of my back.

We had spent all day at the hospital with Monica, and I'll bet Agent Doggett is still there.

The bullet had hit her just above the heart, only inches from what would have been fatal. Monica had gotten damned lucky and I couldn't be more grateful. 

And, although she hadn't died on the operating table, sadly Monica's prognosis was not looking good. She had lost a lot of blood in a short period of time. Even though she had gone through a blood transfusion, it was still quite an amount of stress. Still in ICU, the only person allowed in the room was Agent Doggett, who hadn't left her side since she was admitted at eleven o'clock this morning. Ten whole hours ago. He really cares for her.

I hope she'll be okay, I really do. From what I've gathered, Monica was my closest personal friend, aside from Mulder. Not only for my sake, but for Johns'. I don't know how he'd function without her.

***

Today reminded me how nothing in life is guaranteed. That tomorrow won't always be there, and when it's not, it'll be too late to say anything unsaid. The big question is, though, when will that day come? Will it be a week from now, or will death wait 40 more years?

"What are you thinking about?" Mulder asks from the drivers' seat of his car, waking me from my silent reverie.

"Death," I say, "Or life, really. Both." I shake my head slightly, glancing over at him in the darkened car. 

Even in the moonlight he's beautiful. Especially in the moonlight. It reflects in his eyes.

"I know what you mean. I've been thinking a lot about it myself. When Agent Reyes got shot, I think it hit me that we don't live forever." Taking his eyes off the road for a moment, he looked at me; one of those long meaningful looks that makes my heart rise in my throat.

"Scary," is all I say, averting his gaze, fearing he'd see the blush that has stolen its way across my face. It's the red hair, a curse when I wan to keep my emotions private.

"Yeah, it is. Puts a whole new perspective on things."

Of course it does, to the point where I want to kiss him no, in case we get hit by a bus within the minute and a half it'll take to get to my apartment. True, it's dangerous, so I won't. Not now.

We don't speak again until he pulls up in front of my apartment. I glance at my watch. 11:21. It's not that late, but I'm so tired, emotionally drained.

"Goodnight, Mulder."

"Night, Scully."

Once in my apartment, I flop myself on the bed, not even bothering to change into pajamas.

<The park is cool and the spring breeze plays with my hair, which I wear down, like I normally do, although tonight there is a slight wave to it.

"So, I get this message marked 'urgent' on my answering service from one Fox Mantle, telling me to come down to the park for a very special, very early or very late birthday present. And Mulder, I don't see any nicely wrapped boxes lying around, so what gives?" I lean against the wire fencing and look at Mulder who is standing at home plate, hitting every ball that comes his way.

He is wearing a gray jersey with 'Gibson, #20' on the back. God, he looks good.

"You've never hit a baseball, have you Scully?" he asks me.

I smile, "No, I, uh, found more necessary things to do with my time than slap a piece of horsehide with a stick."

"Get over here, Scully," he says in what I hope is a seductive voice. 

He offers me the bat, and I walk up, cautiously taking the piece of smooth wood in my hands. Mulder wrapped himself around me, still holding onto the bat. An immediate warmth surrounds me, making my stomach do handsprings and my heart swell until it feels like it could burst with happiness. And I'm not even going to think about how arousing this is. 

The taut muscles in his chest are nearly rock solid, and I lean in to them ever so slightly, just to get the feel of his body next to mine. 

"This is my birthday present, Mulder? You shouldn't have," I say warily, trying to mask my inner glee and euphoria. 

"This ain't cheap," Mulder argues from behind me, "I'm paying that kid ten bucks an hour to shag balls."

Only now do I notice the young boy standing on the pitcher's mound, next to the ball machine. He smiles at me and I grin back. 

"Not a bad piece of ash, huh?"

Did he just say what I think he just said? Not knowing what else to do, I glare at him, arching my left eyebrow. 

"The bat- talking about the bat. Now, don't strangle it. You just want to shake hands with it. 'Hello Mr. Bat, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' 'Oh no, no Miss Scully, the pleasure's all mine'"

I laugh and readjust my grip on the bat. My knuckles changed from the white color they had been, back to a normal fleshy tone. 

"Okay," he continues, "now, we want to... we want to go hips before hands, okay?"

He holds his palm two inches from my hip, as if afraid I'll rebuke his touch. I won't though. I never would. 

"We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking about," 

Trust me Mulder, that's not at all what I'm thinking about. 

"So, we go hips..." Touching my hip gingerly with his fingertips, he presses his own hips into me and turns us the right way, "...before hands," We swing the bat a little awkwardly. 

"Okay," I respond, trying to contain my excitement.

"One more time," Again he presses his hips into me, more confidently, and turns our bodies. Momentarily, I wonder what else those hips of his are capable of, but quickly banish the though. I'm already turned on enough. 

"Hips before hands, alright?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Hips before hands," Oh a phrase with so many meanings. The mother of all double entendre. Leaning into me, Mulder whispers into my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

"Right. We're going to wait for the pitch. We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going to make contact. We're not going to think, we're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?"

"Mm-hmm," I murmur, unsure of my ability to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence. 

"Ready?" I nod, but Mulder attempts to fix his grip on the bat, jarring my hands out of position. 

"I'm in the middle," I correct, grinning. 

"All right, fire away, Poorboy."

A ball comes rocketing at us and for a moment, my heart leaps into my throat seeking refuge from the little piece of white leather. 

And then, in one moment of perfect harmony, Mulder and I swing the bat, sending the ball into the fence behind us. 

"Oooh! That's good," Mulder tells me, "All right, what you may find is you concentrate on hitting that little ball... the rest of the world just fades away--all your everyday nagging concerns."

I giggle, not something I normally do, and we hit another ball, this time totally relaxed. 

"The ticking of your biological clock,"

Another ball, another hit.

"How you probably couldn't afford that nice, new suede coat on a G-woman's salary."

Another ball--outta the park.

"How you threw away a promising career in medicine," I shiver as he leans in to whisper in my hear, bringing our bodies closer together. "... to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant partner."

I shoot him another Look and then smile, letting him know I am perfectly satisfied with my life choices. 

"Getting into the hear of a global conspiracy. Your obscenely overdue triple-X bill."

I look up at him confused. Since when did I have a triple-X bill?

"Oh, I... I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours."

"Shut up, Mulder," I said, an enormous smile on my face, as we hit yet another ball into the next county, "I'm playing baseball."

***

I awake suddenly, my mind emerging from the pleasant haziness of dreamland. My heart still beat rapidly as I became aware of the memory I had just regained. Me. Mulder. Baseball. Yummy. God, he's so sweet! I think if I wasn't already in love with him, I would be now. But hell, lets face it, I've been in love with Mulder since the day I met him. Or at least I think I have. 

My throat is dry and raspy, possibly an aftereffect of my dream. I cough quietly, afraid to wake Mulder, who I'm sure, is sleeping in the next room. He always is. Scanning my end table for the glass of water that is usually present there. No luck. 

Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I stretch out a little and rise gracefully to my feet. Well, almost gracefully. I stumble a bit, still not entirely awake and exit my bedroom in search of something to drink. 

"Scully?" Mulder mumbles as I walk passed the living room. I pause.

"Yes Mulder?"

"Why are you awake?" He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and gazing intently into my blue eyes. 

"I had a dream... A memory, really?" I can't help but grin, I just can't help it. Just waking up from the dream I had, experiencing the things that I did, practically forces the corners of my mouth into a smile. How could I not?

"What was it?" he moves over on the couch, motioning for me to sit beside him. 

I do, "Well, you and I were playing baseball in the park." Another huge grin. 

He smiles too, his eyes glossing over and I guess he's reminiscing. God, those lips of his look so tempting right now. If I could have just a little taste. 

Daring, I lean over and touch my lips to his, ever so gently. He reacts with surprise, but not resistance. It feels so good, so natural. Growing impatient, I attempt to deepen the kiss, tracing his bottom lip with my tongue. He moans beneath my caress and grants me the entrance I've been waiting for since I saw him the first time in the hospital room. 

Then he's kissing me. He's kissing my like every girl longs to be kissed. The passion vibrates through me, taking hold of me, and not letting go. 

And then he's gone. 

"What?" I open my eyes, which had slid shut during the course of our kiss. 

He's looking at me oddly, in a way I haven't seen him look at me before. Did I do something wrong? 

"Scully, no."

"No?" I echo, too shocked to say anything more. 

"We can't. This is wrong. 

  
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Caroline McKenna


End file.
